D4: Mal Pris
by Rhythm and Blues
Summary: The seventy-fourth wasn't the first time a tribute convinced the Gamemakers to let two people out of the arena alive. The story of Mags' reaping, victory, and the twenty-four deaths in-between. A numbers game.
1. Les Tributs, I

**Fandom:**_ The Hunger Games_, Suzanne Collins

**Title:**_ D4: Mal Pris_

**Rating:** M

**Characters/pairings:** Mags

**Genre:** Adventure & Spiritual

**Wordcount (Part One):** 9,649

**Notes:** Wanted to write an early-Hunger-Games fanfic. Who's better than Mags for the job? D4 edition of Running Through the Districts series but can stand alone.

**Disclaimer:** Things I do not own include: _The Hunger Games, the Divine Comedy, the Bible._

* * *

_Première Partie: Les Tributs_

"Margaret."

"What it is, _boug_?" I says, reeling my fishing line back in. _Rien de poissons_, but I wasn't really expecting any. There ain't nowheres near our little house that's any good for catching, and if I want anything good to cook up tonight, I'll have to head on down to the docks by the town square. But it's a good two hour's walk into town, and it's reaping day, so it's best not to travel down until I ain't got no choice.

"No _marécage _tonight, _hein_?" says my brother. He sits on beside me and rests his face in his hands. "What do now?"

The reaping ceremony ain't for another four hours, and Mawmaw told us not to come home until we had to put on our Sunday best. I dunno why she says Sunday best like that, though. Ain't been Sunday mass since I made five years, before the war began and before the Capitol wrote up the Treaty of Treason and _foutait_ all us in the districts.

I stand and dust the dirt off the seat of my pants, leaning hard on the rod and trying to think of something to do on reaping day, when _beaucoup de_ Peacekeepers come on into District Four and watch us all real close. It's been ten years since all this Hunger Games business began, but a lotta people still make the _misère_ at the reapings. Like it makes much difference anymore.

"_Mais_," I says. "Anywheres there's still _des meurres_ left for the picking?"

My brother shakes his head, twisting around his shaggy mane of brown hair. "Been picked 'fore they even had the chance to get ripe." He smiles real wide at me and begins walking away backwards. "Not much to do but head on back to Mawmaw's and Pawpaw's and get ready for the reaping."

"Walter!" He turns, and I toss the fishing rod. He fumbles a bit, but catches it, hissing a little. "Mawmaw don't want us home for another hour. Let's see if _des poissons_ will bite for you, _hein_?" I call, already pulling on up a _chadron _plant and stripping off the little violet petals at the top. They're edible, but they work well as hooks too, if you can strip them up well enough and sharpen up the _peekons_ so they good and pointy.

"_Merde_, girl," Walter howls, sucking on the corner of his thumb. "You stuck me with the hook." But he sits on down next to me, swinging his legs in the water and gracefully casting out the line. "You lucky I ain't one for holding grudges," he grumbles.

Laughing a little, I take up a rock and try and carefully sharpen the _peekons_ on the plant in my hands. "You deserved it, trying to disobey Mawmaw," I scold. "Wasn't for her, we'd be living at that _maison terrible_ where all the other orphans go. Ain't no reason they had to take us in after what happened to _defante_ Ma and _defan_ Pop."

Walter scowls and scratches his arm. His face – which has always been a bit dark – looks real tanned from all his work in the sun – traveling into town to work on a purse-seine until the sun goes on setting. Before the war, our family had a boat all of our own – a _petit_ rowboat named after our ma – but when the Capitol went on and killed _defan_ Pop, our ma left with it and ain't never come back since. We always assumed _elle est morte_, but sometimes, I've gotta hope she's still living and found somewheres better than here.

After a while of scowling down at me, Walter turns on back to the water and pulls a little on the line. "You think I don't know that, _pichouette_? _Dieu_, I remember more of the war than you. I remember all them fighting and yelling and dying _dans les rues_. I seen the worst, and I know we might well be the damn luckiest _fille et garçon_ in Panem. You ain't gotta tell me that."

He's right, of course. I had only seven years during the war and Walter had eleven. I can't remember much but Mawmaw blocking my ears and eyes and crying when her only son – my pop – turned up dead. "_Je suis désolée_," I apologize, a bit surprised at the response. Walter ain't serious too often, but when he is, he gets real scary. "Guess reaping day's making me all weird."

"_De rien_. Reaping day makes everyone all weird, don't it?" He gives me a big old smile, which gets bigger when something tugs on the line. "See that?" he whoops, reeling in fast as he can. "We gonna have _marécage_ tonight for sure!"

I smile for a bit and tell him that he's gotta reel it on in faster if he thinks we're eating anything tonight, but then something strikes me hard in the brain and I gotta frown.

"What if they go on and reap me?" I ask. "On account of my having so many slips in there."

Walter won't look at me as he pulls in his catch – a small red snapper. "Don't you worry, Margaret. You don't got too many slips."

I kick my feet in the water, watching the way the drops go shining in the sun. A real long, long time back – around when Pawpaw was born – this area used to be all swampy and marshy, but then the water moved up real high and the world's long-time weather went changing. So now it's less swampy and all like a beach. Pawpaw says where we live used to be called _Lafourche_, but it's been District Four long as I known.

"Don't got too many?" I murmur. "You ain't never had as many as I got this year." And that's true as my hair is long.

About five years back, Pawpaw slipped on the dock and did a number to his knees. Couldn't make the long walk into town after that, and we all had to have one less meal to make up. I mean, we all tried our best, with Walter's working longer and my making up some fishing rods for Walter to sell in town, but things never been quite the same since.

And then Walter's last year of reaping, the Capitol went on and made this big announcement about how they'll be giving away grain and oil to any of them kids who sign up for more of those _petits_ slips. So Walter and I did it ever since.

I think I got my name in there thirty-three times.

_**-:-:-:-**_

When Walter and I make it on home after about an hour fishing out by the water, Mawmaw hurries us along to get us ready quick. I find out she sent us out and told us not to come back until now 'cause she was finishing up a special reaping dress for me, using some floral print Walter picked up special.

Once I've got the dress put on me, I pull Mawmaw into a big hug and squeeze her real close. "Thank you, Mawmaw," I whisper in her ear.

"_De rien, pichouette_," she says, swatting me a bit on the shoulder. "You outta feel good about yourself, especially on a day like this here. Now," she pulls me back away from her and grips my shoulders, running her eyes on down me. "I think your hair's just fine as is." It's been done up in a million tiny braids, braids that ain't going anywheres anytime soon.

Once we girls got ourselves all ready to head on out, we move on into the sitting room where the men are waiting for us. Pawpaw's sitting down in his straight-backed rocking chair, straw hat perched on his hair and his cane sitting in between his knees. Behind him, Walter stands in a real slick but kinda old and all moth-eaten suit that used be Pawpaw's way back. Silently, we all go on and grab each other's hands.

Left, I've got Walter's hand – which feels all good and strong but kinda rough from pulling on rope and skinning fish – and right, Mawmaw's got her hand all snug in mine. Hers is kinda old and soft, and I can go on and feel them bones in it right through her skin. But her fingertips are real hard and callused from sewing and housework. They're both real comforting, especially once you consider that I'm the only one left who's gotta stand in that big pig pen and hope to the dear Lord that my name ain't gonna be called out.

"Lord," Mawmaw begins. Before the reaping every year, we all get on together in a circle and hold hands and pray on up to the Lord.

One year – when things were real bad after Pawpaw's knees went bad but before the Capitol gave us tesserae – Walter got real angry and loud and shouted at Mawmaw, telling her that there ain't no God in Panem, 'cause if there was then none of this woulda happened. Mawmaw yelled on back and gave him a good slap and told him he ain't welcome in her _maison_ with talk like that.

Walter don't say much on the subject now – just goes on with the praying on account of Mawmaw – but I can sometimes see it in his eyes that he ain't seeing things the same way he did when we were younger and real hopeful-like. Inside of him, there's this real angry man who wants something he ain't never gonna get, and I think that's why he gets on so scary when he gets serious.

"_Dieu_," Mawmaw prays. "Bless this house and protect us from the wickedness of the world. Keep our _chère_ Margaret safe on this day where we must mourn for all those lives lost in _la guerre_ against the Capitol. And we pray for the souls of my dear _fils_ Joseph and his wife Annie, _le defan pere et la defante mere_ of these _beaux enfants_. Let them live forever in the paradise of Your kingdom."

"Amen," we all says. Walter comes on in a second after the rest of us, so his deep voice goes ringing through the air after the rest of our voices faded out.

When I look on up into his eyes, I see some of that anger dancing in them like a fresh catch right when it comes on out of the water, so I squeeze his hand real tight in mine.

"_Qu'est-ce que c'est, pichouette_?" he asks.

"_Rien, boug_," I says. "_Rien_."

_**-:-:-:-**_

We spend most of the long walk down into town real quiet, not saying much to each other but maybe the occasional word here or there. For a little time, we talk on about what we gonna have for dinner tonight once we get on back home from the reaping, but it just goes on reminding us that I might go and get chosen and never get to see this here dinner we're planning.

Pawpaw can't do too much walking for too long, so Walter and I take turns pushing him along in the old rusty wheelbarrow that Mawmaw's had since she was real young. And when we finally get on into the town square – where a whole bunch of different people arrived before us – Walter kisses me right on the forehead and Pawpaw squeezes my hand before they wheel on into the crowd that sits on the side.

Mawmaw straightens out my braids a bit and then just goes on standing there and looking on up at me. I dunno when it happened, but I somehow became real tall, and now Mawmaw's the one who's gotta look up.

"_Je t'aime_," she says to me, real quiet like it's a special secret just between the two of us. "I love you."

"_Je t'aime aussi_," I go on saying, not really thinking much about it. They ain't new words between the two of us, really, and it ain't until after I've gone and said them out loud that I realize how important them words really are. So I says it again. "_Je t'aime aussi_."

She smiles, and then she goes and leaves me to follow Walter and Pawpaw.

Not long after she goes and I find my place in the section for all us girls who can be reaped, the mayor of District Four goes on climbing onto the stage and taps the microphone good and hard, which sends a loud screeching noise all the way through the square. The mayor's a real small man, so pale you can bet he ain't never worked on a fishing boat his whole life. He sweats a whole lot whenever I see him – shakes a lot too – and I'd bet my tesserae for a whole year that the Capitol's got him right on under its thumb.

He's got a crumpled piece of paper in his hands, and he clears his throat and begins reading from it all careful.

"Many years back," he begins, "_une guerre mondiale_ began, and the great nation of North America was greatly damaged by this crisis. They moved inwards – leaving whole cities behind them – trying to escape the threat of an attack that would never come."

In the beginning, it don't really matter what he says, on account of the fact that no one alive back then is alive nowadays.

"North America relied on many of the other countries to give them the resources they needed to survive, and these other countries were destroyed – by great nuclear weapons, by earthquakes on land and in the oceans – causing great waves to swallow up the land, by fires that came from not taking the right care of the forests."

"The filth they left behind heated up the earth," the mayor continues, "caused great storms in the North and hard droughts in the South. It caused the ice of the world to melt, and the cities on the coasts were swallowed up by great floods of the oceans, making District Four into the home of _marécage_ as it is now.

"There began brutal fighting over the few resources that were left over, so the nation created a system of fourteen areas – the Capitol and the thirteen districts – and assigned each area it's own products, with the glorious Capitol to govern them, to keep them happy and in control.

"But soon the districts grew selfish, began asking for more than the Capitol could give, and the uprisings began."

There's a stirring in the crowd, 'cause we all were alive for this here story, and everyone in the audience wants to make sure that the mayor gets it right this year and tells us the story all straight.

A voice calls out from the crowd. I can't rightly tell where from, but I can tell it's a man's voice, kinda young sounding too. "I wasn't no uprisings," he says. "It was a _War on Oppression_!" That's what the districts called it back when it was happening, but the Capitol don't want to call it a war. I figure they think it'll make us here in the districts feel more accomplished.

The mayor gives his brow a good wipe with his big shaky hands, and some Peacekeepers go on looking through the crowd of spectators, looking for the man who called out.

So the mayor waits before he goes on talking, nodding on to the Peacekeepers, even while they go on disrupting his speech by scaring everyone listening. They find that young man who said those words about the War on Oppression and push him down to the ground, holding him down real good and tight. He tries and struggle back on up, but one of the Peacekeepers goes and shoots him on down, right through his skull.

A few years back, a whole lotta people would've tried and stopped the Peacekeepers, tried and caused a big old ruckus and got right on shot too. But now people just ain't got no life to them anymore. It's been stolen away by the Capitol and their Hunger Games.

Once the man who shouted out's gone and died, the mayor goes on talking like nothing happened. "After seven long months of fighting the terrorist in the districts that caused these Dark Days, the Capitol defeated twelve of these districts and destroyed the thirteenth. Upon the victory for peace, a council of Capitol Senators created the Treaty of Treason to guarantee peace within the districts. It was this treaty that gave us the Hunger Games, to remind the districts that the uprisings are never to be repeated."

After he finishes, the mayor goes and pauses for a real time, waiting for someone else to say something and get killed without no chance to live.

But ain't no one says anything after that. Ain't no one gonna make the _misère aujourd'hui_.

In the last nine years of Hunger Games, District Four ain't had a single victor yet, so there ain't no need to introduce anyone but Lila Fitzgerald, a young _femme_ from the Capitol who don't know the difference between a cat and a catfish.

She goes on up to the microphone, trying to be real happy but falling a bit flat. A few years back, someone started a big old rumor in District Four that the Capitol was gonna go and cancel the Hunger Games 'cause they don't like it much more than the districts. But it wasn't true back then and it ain't never gonna be true.

"Hello," Lila Fitzgerald says with a fake smile spreading all the way across her face. "This year there will be a few special surprise changes to how the Games will work." The microphone buzzes real loud on the word _work_, but Lila Fitzgerald just goes on talking. "This means that we'll all meet the players before they enter the arena. Exciting, isn't it?" she asks, looking all cheery even though we all know that she ain't any more cheery than the mayor is or the Peacekeepers are.

"Alright," she says after a long pause, apparently having expected someone in the crowd to go on and agree that this here is real exciting indeed. "I suppose we'll choose this year's tributes for District Four." Now, she goes and gives a different smile to the crowd – kinda reassuring – and winks at all those kids penned on in the middle of the square. "May the odds be in your favor," she says, then pauses with her eyes real wide and laughs, as if she's just said the cleverest thing she ever heard.

I ain't ever heard anyone from the Capitol telling us _may the odds be in your favor_ before, and I've gotta wonder if Lila Fitzgerald means that she hopes we get picked or we won't.

But before I can go and give it some real thought, Lila Fitzgerald starts digging around in one of the two big glass bowls sitting on that there stage.

When the Hunger Games started, the Capitol used a big cage full of balls with kids' names on them. The person from the Capitol would go and turn a little crank on the side of the cage, and one of the balls would come rolling out. But now they use bowls, on account of the fact it's more elegant, I guess.

Lila finally gets ahold of one of them _petits_ slips and walks up to the microphone, clearing up her voice and unfolding the paper all careful.

"Margaret Lafont," she says slow, like she's not sure of the pronunciation.

It takes me a couple of seconds to realize that name she called was mine.

And I can't quite remember to breathe right after that.

_**-:-:-:-**_

They go ahead and give me fifteen minutes to say goodbye to Walter and Mawmaw and Pawpaw, all of us gathered around in a tiny little room in the Justice Building that ain't got any air flowing through it. I didn't realize just how hot this here day has been until we all piled into that room like those sardines they go on stuffing to cans down at the cannery.

I dunno if it's the way the room's all hot and cramped, but my head's spinning around on my shoulders, and I can't seem to catch my breath proper. Even when Pawpaw goes on and pulls me into one of those big hugs that he only gives _rarement_, my heart's soaring all the way up in my throat and my feet are all itching to go for a real long run.

He says something to me in the Old Language – the one only a handful of people in District Four can understand rightly – and I almost miss it 'cause he whispers it so quiet.

"_Je t'aime, pichouette. Bonne chance. __Tu gagneras. Je crois_."

_I love you, little girl. Good luck. You'll win. I believe._

"_Je crois_," I whisper on back. If I learned anything from Mawmaw and Pawpaw, it's that believing may well be more important than anything else in the world.

Next, Mawmaw attacks me with a whole bunch of kisses – on my cheeks, on my forehead, on my nose – and goes to crush me in her arms. She does that thing she always does, where she pulls away to get a real good look at me, holding tight around my shoulders like I'm holding her down to the world.

"We'll pray for you," she says – real firm and kinda loud – and behind her, Walter's whole body stiffens right up, like he's been slapped right across the face.

He cuts on forward and yanks me away from Mawmaw, crushing me in his hands like I ain't ever felt before. _Dieu_, his fingers go on digging so hard in my arm that I'm gonna have bruises for sure. He practically yells at Mawmaw, "Don't you get it, Mawmaw? It don't make no difference if we pray on up to your _Dieu précieux ou non_. You prayed to Him asking Him to protect Margaret, and then she goes and gets chosen right off." Walter's face burns all red and his voice raises up. "Don't you realize, Mawmaw? There ain't never been no God in Panem and there ain't never gonna be, and this," – he goes and squeezes my arm harder – "This here is proof."

Now, he lets go of my arm and turns to me, his eyes real soft and dark – like chocolate, which I got to eat once a real long time back and loved a whole lot. "I'm sorry Margaret. _Je t'aime bien_, but I ain't gonna be praying for you."

"_Je comprend_s," I says, 'cause I really do.

_**-:-:-:-**_

After I finish up talking with my family, the Peacekeepers come on in and whisk me into _une voiture_ – something that I ain't never ridden in myself but fishers use to drive the catch down to the cannery. Honest, I can't say why anyone ever could have thought this driving business was a real smart idea, 'cause by the time we all make it down to the train station, my stomach is mighty unsettled.

Later on, the train ain't much better. It ain't as smooth as Lila Fitzgerald seems to think it is, and all the lurching and stopping does a real number to my stomach. I don't really want to complain much, on account of the fact that the boy who's going on with me to the Capitol is real small and if anyone's gotta have some being taken care of, it's him. But after a few hours doing nothing but laying in the bed them Capitol people gave me to use, I gotta track down Lila Fitzgerald and ask how much longer this here trip is gonna take.

She gives me a little look when I talk to her, though, like I'm the scum of the earth and she don't want to get too near be on account of my stupid being contagious. "We'll arrive tomorrow morning at ten," she says. "If you're hungry, the dining cart is just the next one over," she adds, like she trying to get rid of me.

I ain't had anything to eat since _le petit déjeuner_, but I'm a little afraid anything I'm gonna eat will just come right back up again. "What we doing when we get there?" I go on asking, both 'cause I'm curious and 'cause I wanna bother her a little. "You said back at the reaping that the Hunger Games are gonna go on a bit different this year."

Lila heaves a big old sigh like she ain't never met someone so hard to deal with, but she goes on talking anywho. "They're going to interview you tomorrow afternoon. And then, you'll be given a day to train before you go into the arena."

"Interview me? _Merde_," I curse. "What they gonna ask me?"

Lila's lips curls on up. "_Ax_ you?"

"_Ouias_," I says, not sure why she's going on and looking at me like that. "You know what questions they gonna ask me?"

"No." Reaching on up to pat down her hair – which ain't the same colour as her eyebrows – she begins walking over to the next cart – the one that ain't the dining cart. "I suggest you get something to eat before they put all the food away for the night."

She got a point there, and she made it good and obvious that she ain't up for any more conversation with a District Four backwater hick, so I go on walking off opposite her. There's a moment where I'm sure as hells bells that I'm gonna die when I'm between the two carts and the wind's all flying around me and the world's passing right by me in a blur, but I slam the dining cart door behind me before I go and do something real embarrassing like throwing up.

When I get calm enough to pay much any attention, aroma of the food reminds me how hungry I really am. On the big table sitting in the middle of the cart, they got everything a gal could ask for. _Un poulet, _plums, _des patates_, and even chocolate. Heck, they got foods I ain't seen before in my life but look better than any _poisson_ I ever caught or _meurre_ I ever picked.

"_Dieu_," I says, inhaling deep so the smell fills up my whole body. "_J'ai faim._"

"Stuff's delicious," says a young voice sitting down at the table. It's Edward Martin – who's _petit_ and looks like he ain't even made thirteen yet. I reckon he might be from town, on account of the way he speaks kinda like he got a school education instead of having his _mère ou père_ teach him. I ain't heard him say much, but he don't seem to use much of the Old Language.

"Sure looks fine, _boug_," I says. I go on and take the seat across him, piling _un patate_ and some chocolate high on my plate.

"Don't you go calling me _boug_," Edward Martin warns, his eyes dark and his face in a scowl. "I'm gonna fight to win, and I don't want you to go on and get in my way." He finishes his little warning by tearing off a piece of his _poulet_ with his teeth, trying to look all tough but just looking real small and immature.

Taking a big bite of chocolate – which might be the best thing I ever tasted – I look at Edward real hard. "_Mais_, you got probably, what, twelve years? You even know what the Hunger Games are about?"

"'Course I do," he screeches around a big old piece of meat that's hanging outta his mouth. "We learn about the uprisings in school."

But he goes on using that phrase _uprisings_, so I know that he ain't heard anything but propaganda straight from the Capitol itself. "You mean the _War on Oppression_?" I ask, thinking about that poor young man in the town square who lost his life for saying the same thing. I figure I'll be losing my life real soon too, so it don't really matter. But that thought makes it so I gotta shove the fear rising in my throat back down.

Edward must be thinking along the same lines as me, 'cause he cringes a little and stares at his plate. His eyes are _vert – _the same colour as the seaweed that goes and gets caught on the shore during the hottest days of the year – and his mouth's wide as a trout's. "No one in school ever called them the _War on Oppression_."

"Yeah," I mumble. My stomach's still kinda upset, so I don't manage eating more that half of the chocolate and _un petit morceau du patate_. "Ain't no one in the _Capitol_ ever called them the _War on Oppression_ neither."

* * *

**Sometimes I forget that not everyone can slip in and out of French, so if there's anything that needs clarification, let me know.**

**In addition, this is a three part story (six chapters, though. Two for each part.), much like how **_**THG**_** itself is separated into three parts. If you leave a signed review, I will happily send you a preview of the next chapter (**_**Les Tributs, II**_**), which should be posted sometime next week.**


	2. Les Tributs, II

**Fandom:**_ The Hunger Games_, Suzanne Collins

**Title:**_ D4: Mal Pris_

**Rating:** M

**Characters/pairings:** Mags

**Genre:** Adventure & Spiritual

**Wordcount (Part One):** 9,649

**Summary:** The seventy-fourth wasn't the first time a tribute convinced the Gamemakers to let two people out of the arena alive. The story of Mags' reaping, victory, and the twenty-four deaths in-between. A numbers game.

**Disclaimer:** Things I do not own include: _The Hunger Games, the Divine Comedy, the Bible._

* * *

_Première Partie: Les Tributs, II_

I don't wake up the next morning until the train's arrived in the Capitol and Lila Fitzgerald and some other woman go knocking on my door and I gotta scramble outta bed to answer.

I'm still in the dress Mawmaw made for me and I wore to the reapings yesterday _après-midi, _and when I open on up the door, Lila clucks her tongue and shakes her head at me, looking down at me like I ain't even worthy of being in her presence. The other _femme_, though, tilts her head to the side and squints at me real hard. She's got a big long bag and a box in her hands, and she goes to put them on the ground before she can go on and inspect me closer.

"I like her hair," she says, reaching up to finger the braids. I go on and let her 'cause I ain't sure what else to do. "I can work with that." After a moment of fumbling around with my hair, she drops her hand down to my face and runs her fingertips along my cheeks. "Her complexion is dark, so jewel-tones will work best. That's good. It goes with the dress I made."

Letting go of my face, she walks around me, inspecting me with her hands clasped behind her back. I ain't sure whether I'm supposed to turn my head and follow her with my eyes, so I just kinda stand there, feeling an awful lot like one of them _poissons _that the Capitol comes on down and catches out of District Four every half year. Pawpaw says they cut them on up and look inside them to see that the water's good and healthy, but I always feel real bad for them.

"Thank you, Lila," the_ femme_ says, real polite and with a little smile that's sweet enough to be right off Mawmaw's face. It's pretty obvious this here is a Capitol lady, and I ain't never assumed that all the people from the Capitol are high strung and got no patience, but the way she acts surprises me a bit. "She'll be ready soon."

Even I can tell that's Capitol-speak for "get on outta here," and Lila nods a little – looking a bit relieved to be leaving – and closes the door on shut behind her, leaving it so it's just me and this nice-sounding Capitol_ femme_.

"So, you're Margaret Lafont, aren't you?" she says, dropping on down to the floor and opening up the box she brought in with her. "That's a pretty name. Mine's Jocasta. Now," she pulls a few tubes and bottles out of her box and goes on giving me a wide smile. "I'm going to have to ask you to strip down. We've got some work to do."

I may well have thought Jocasta seemed real sweet and nice, but what she does to me after that's real vicious and hurts a whole lot more than it should. She starts out by stripping me of all my hair everywheres but the top of my head, and when she finishes up with that and I think all the pain's good and over and ain't gonna start up again, she comes on at my eyes, trying to poke them out. I try and keep real still when she tells me she's just doing it all to make me look pretty, but my body don't agree. Ain't nothing that hurts should be called pretty.

When she's all done with attacking my face, I've gotta put on a dress that looks just like the ocean in the sunset – all emerald and sapphire with some orange and yellow and violet – and Jocasta does some crazy thing to my hair, putting half of it up.

"You're beautiful," she coos.

I just go on scowling. "Ain't feeling beautiful."

We get off the train together and meet up with Edward Martin, Lila Fitzgerald, and some other _homme_ on the platform. They got some people around snapping pictures with fat cameras that got huge lights stuck to the top of them, and every time there's a big old clicking sound, them lights go on flashing in my eyes. I can't see a thing on account of the black dots on my vision. But someone grabs my hand and pulls me along with them until we hop into something a whole lot like _une voiture_ but real long and a whole lot sleeker.

"_Dieu_," I says, rubbing by eyes real good. "They trying to blind us all before they go on killing us?"

In the seat next to me, Edward blinks a bit himself and runs a hand through his hair. It looks like whoever made him look all fancy tried their darndest to slick back his hair clean and smooth, but it's still as spiky and fluffy as it was back in the dining cart. "I don't like this," he says, looking real uncomfortable in the suit they put him in. The bow tie matches my dress perfect. "Why can't they just put us in the arena now?"

Lila – whose lips are red and shiny as blood now – smiles at us with perfect white teeth. "The people want to see you first, get to know you. It'll make the sponsoring system run so much smoother," she gushes.

I ain't sure what exactly she means by the "sponsoring system" until I think of the gifts that some people got in past Hunger Games. "You mean, it's people in the Capitol who go on and pay for them gifts in the arena?" I think of a few years back when one boy got himself a gun from one of those parachutes and went on to shoot a little girl who hid herself in a bush.

"That's right," Lila chirps on. "Do well in the interviews and you may get your own gifts in the arena."

Everyone becomes real quiet after that, so I go on and stare out the dark window. I watch the shiniest buildings I ever seen roll on by, so tall I gotta crane my neck up high to see their tops. I catch sight of a few fat grey birds eating off the sidewalks before my stomach begins whining and I've gotta look straight ahead and close my eyes.

When the sleek _voiture_ – which I hear Lila call a _limo_ – comes to a stop, Lila pushes Edward and me right on out the door so we're walking behind two other kids down a long _rouge_ carpet. All over again, fat cameras snap all around us and I gotta squint if I wanna see anything.

The _fille et garçon_ walking in front of me are real short with dark hair – they gotta be from District Three – and walk real stoic and uncomfortable. Next to me, Edward does the same.

But then I go on thinking about Walter who got such anger in him but acts so kind and Mawmaw who went on and spent the whole _matin_ making a pretty dress for me and Pawpaw who don't talk much but always says a whole lot when he does.

So I lift on up my hand and wave at them flashes of light, smiling real wide and pretending I'm walking down the path that leads home.

I might not be going on home to see them all again, but I ain't gonna let them remember me any other way.

_**-:-:-:-**_

All us tributes gotta wait backstage before we go on out for our interview with Virgil Maro – who's real famous here in the Capitol but I ain't ever heard of in my life. In the dark back there, I can't get a good look at most of the other tributes, but I can see the _fille et garçon_ from District Three, and up close, they look so alike – with dark shiny hair and narrow eyes – that I could think they were brother and sister if I didn't know they ain't. Behind me, the boy from District Five coughs a whole lot – real loud and wet sounding – but I don't get no real look at him.

Virgil Maro seems nice and all, but I get the feeling that he ain't too original, and when he's calling me out onstage, I feel like I already know exactly what he's gonna ask me.

"So, Margaret," he says once I sat in the armchair across from his and the audience stopped its applause. "What was your reaction when your name was called at the reaping?"

Sitting on this here stage in front of all them Capitol folks ain't doing much but making me nervous. My stomach feels just like it did on the train. I gotta swallow before I start talking. "_Dieu_, I reckon I'll let you know when _I_ do," I says, a little sheepish. Virgil and the audience laugh a bit, and I've gotta smile when my stomach stops flopping around so hard. "I wanna go home, but I know there ain't much chance of that happening.

Leaning forward, Virgil Maro mashes his fingertips together so they look like spiders walking on each other's feet. "And what do you think are your odds of winning? In the words of your escort – Lila Fitzgerald –" The audience claps on a bit for Lila – "Do you think that _the odds are in your favor_?"

"_Peut-etre_," I says, doing a little maths in my head. "I reckon my odds are good as any – one in twenty-four." I ain't much for speaking right, but it's me Mawmaw and Pawpaw turn to when they're needing maths to be done. "I reckon that's four percent."

"A little grim," says Virgil, "when you look at it that way."

I ain't sure whether he wants me to say something to that, so we just sit there for a second until he goes on talking again.

"It sounds to me that you're a pretty smart girl," he praises, even though it sounds too hollow. "But…" He trails on off, like he doesn't wanna sound rude but knows he will if he goes on talking.

"_Mais_," I says. "My _famille et moi_ live real far from town, so I ain't never had a school education. Butmy_ mémère _taught me everything I need to know. We ain't got many books, but she taught me to read from the Bible." I ain't too sure how wise it is to go on talking about the Lord in the Capitol – where barely anyone thinks _Dieu_ is anyone but an imaginary superhero – so I move on real quick. I look on out at the audience, even though it ain't easy to make out any faces with the way the light's shining down on me. "Don't you go thinking I ain't too bright on account of how I talk."

Virgil smiles at me, all kindness and a little too real for comfort. "Well spoken, Margaret. Now tell us," – now he drops his voice low, like he's asking me to tell him a secret – "what makes you believe you deserve to win the Tenth Annual Hunger Games?"

For a moment, I don't got no thoughts in my brain. And then my mind goes flashing a thousand places, and I can barely keep up.

There's the feeling of Mawmaw's hand in mine, soft and warm but callused at the fingertips and _keep our __chère __Margaret safe on this day where we must mourn for all those lives lost in la guerre_ and Walter's toffee-coloured eyes staring straight on into my soul and _I know we might well be the damn luckiest fille et garçon in Panem_ and Pawpaw and _je crois_.

_Je crois, je crois, je crois…_

"_Pourquoi croyez-vous que je le pense_?" I ask, 'cause my mind's gone slipping _complètement_ into the Old Language.

Virgil goes on and gives me a real puzzled look. "Excuse me?"

"I don't think I deserve to win," I says. "I don't think anyone deserves to go on winning if they gonna kill innocent _enfants_ to get there, and I know that when I'm in that there arena I'm gonna go on killing people if I can."

_Je crois…_

_**-:-:-:-**_

Once Virgil Maro kicks me right offstage the nicest way _un homme_ from the Capitol knows how, I spend all my time watching everyone else go on talking with him, some of them laughing it on up with him other ones acting real quiet and a little nervous.

The boy from District Five says he's fourteen, but he's real scrawny and got such a bad cough that I gotta wonder if he's lying. The boy from Seven's real wide built and ain't too worried about going into a whole lot of detail about how he's gonna go and cut down all us tributes like he does with trees back home. The girl from Eight's got the biggest eyes I ever saw, and they seem to see everywheres without even needing to look.

Then there's the girl from Ten, who goes and breaks my heart before I even get a chance to hear her speak.

She may well be the prettiest girl I ever seen, with hair that's real long and dark and skin that looks so pale it ain't even real. Makes me run my hands over my own face and feel it's dirty and pull at my own hair and feel it ain't pretty as I used to think.

I mighta felt more jealous if she wasn't pregnant.

_**-:-:-:-**_

"You all see that girl?" I ask that night when Edward, Lila, and me are all sitting together and eating dinner. They serving us all _marecage_ tonight, and I can't help but wonder why.

Taking a big bite outta his _homard_, Edward scowls. "What girl? There's eleven of them, if we ain't counting you."

"The pregnant one," I says, sending him a big old glare on account of the way he's been acting since I met him. I know he's scared – so am I – but there ain't no reason to act like he is. "You all think they're gonna let her go into the arena like that?"

"They are."

I turn and look at Lila, who's cutting up her own meal real careful, putting small pieces on her fork and chewing with her mouth closed before she starts on up talking again. I ain't sure if I wanna look right in her eyes if she's saying what I think she is, so I stare at her eyebrows, which are a good twenty shades darker than her hair.

"There was some debate," Lila says, "on whether or not they should force her into labor and have her baby before she goes into the arena. The Senate even voted on it, and it was decided that she was reaped as she is and should go in as such."

"_Les bâtards_!" I curse. I dunno if this ever happened before, but that ain't the way to handle this situation. They don't got any right to send a pregnant woman into the arena. _Mais_, they ain't got the right to send anyone in the arena, but they go on doing it anywho. _Ain't ten years more than enough to make up for just seven months?_

Edward chuckles a little, and it may well be the first time I ever saw him smile. It scrunches on up his eyes and twists at his lips. "You kiss your _mère_ with that mouth, girl?"

Something real hot and kinda painful shoots right on up through my chest and into my forehead, making my nostrils flare right up and the space back behind my eyes itch bad. "_Va te faire foutre_!" I yell at him, standing on up fast enough to knock my chair right to the floor. I ain't ever said that to anyone before and ain't quite sure when I ever heard it been said to me. And if Mawmaw were to hear me she'd be ready to beat my hide real good for it. But right now, all I can think about's my _defante_ ma sailing on away on our old rowboat and how I ain't never seen her since.

"I don't got one," I says. If my cussing weren't enough to realize that I ain't thinking right, my next words do the trick, 'cause then I turn right on around to Lila and says, "_Et_ _je crois_ we all know whose fault that is."

That's when I go on and walk right on out of the room and stomp off to my sleeping quarters.

I try and not blink and ignore how my eyes itch.

_**-:-:-:-**_

That night, I have a dream.

I'm standing on the edge of the beach, looking on out at _la mer_. There's a rowboat sitting right on the edge of the water, and waves keep on moving farther and farther on up the shore, threatening to push that tiny rowboat right on into the sea. I try and take a step forward to stop it from drifting off, but I can't rightly move, and when I look down at myself, I see why.

I'm a tree. With tough dark bark and vines that wrap all the way around my body – _trunk_ – with great sharp _peekons_ digging on into me. And when I look back to the rowboat, I see there's someone slumped down inside – lying so I can't see his face – and a woman climbing on in beside him. A woman with dark, wild eyes that got so much sadness curled up in them that I can't do nothing but stare at them.

She gets on into the boat real careful and pulls the man onto her lap, stroking his face, running her thumb over his closed _yeux_ and parted lips. Then, pulls his face up real close to hers – so that her hair falls on over his cheeks and down his neck – and kisses him right on the middle of his forehead.

"_Joseph_." She whispers, but I can still hear it from my place rooted on the shore, and it's my _defante_ ma's voice on her lips, _sans doubt_.

The boat starts moving on out into the sea, taking _l'homme et la femme_ with it, and I dunno why, but I suddenly feel real small and helpless and wanna run off after them.

_Ma! Pop!_

Someone pushed the rowboat away from the shore, and I'm so distracted by the sight of it disappearing into _la mer_ that I don't see that someone come lumbering on up towards me until he's standing right in front of me – the boy from District Seven – with an ax coming right towards my body – _trunk_.

Right before I wake up – right before that ax hits me where my stomach oughta be – I get my first good look at that _femme_'s face, the one whose drifting off into _la mer_. The one with my _defante_ ma's voice.

It's that girl from District Ten. The pregnant one.

There's pain in my stomach, and everything goes fading away.

_**-:-:-:-**_

When I wake on up, I gasp instead of breathing, and I ain't too sure where I am. It's still real dark outside – or dark as it can get in the Capitol – but I can't fall back asleep no matter how hard I try.

So I stay lying in my bed and staring on up at the ceiling until it gets light out, thinking about everything that I'm scared of but can't put in words.

_**-:-:-:-**_

"You wanna team up?"

Even after all that thinking this morning, I ain't sure why I'm doing this or what I'll be getting outta it, but I can't stop myself now. Some reason, all I can think about is my _defante_ ma. Like if I can stop this girl from drifting away it'll be like I never let my ma do it neither.

"Huh?" The girl from District Ten's squatting on the ground, rubbing two sticks together real hard, trying to make fire. But her belly sticks out so far she ain't even able to see what she's doing.

"_Tu t'appelle comment_?" I ask, 'cause I've been calling this _fille_ all sorts of different things inside of my head, but I ain't never learned her name. "What's your name, _chère_?"

Looking on up at me, she tries and get up but stumbles a bit. I try and catch her by the shoulder, but instead she goes and drops her hand in mine so I can help her climb on up onto her feet again. Her fingernails are real long – not as long as Lila Fitzgerald's – but her palm feels rough. "Ruth," she says. "And _what_?"

"I asked if you wanna team up," I says, sounding more calm than I feel. "And I'd be thinking real hard on it if I was you, 'cause I don't think you're gonna get too many offers."

"But…" she places her hand on her stomach – her fingers splayed – and her eyes go hazy. "_Why?_"

_Why didn't anyone volunteer for you, honeychile?_

"'Cause I ain't gonna live knowing a pregnant woman had to die for it to happen."

Even as I says it, I know that it ain't really the whole truth, on account of the fact that I ain't under any delusions that I'm gonna live too long. After hours lying on a bed much softer than my own at home and doing nothing but thinking – about how I don't wanna die, about how Mawmaw always says that the Kingdom of Heaven's waiting for us but how I ain't too sure there's anything after I'm gone and I ain't _ready_ to be nothing but an empty body – I finally decided that I might well use the time I got left to do something that'll at least make Mawmaw – if Walter's right and there really ain't a God – proud.

The pregnant girl from District Ten – _Ruth_ – stares on up at me and smiles the widest I ever seen someone from the districts smile. "What's your name?" she asks, holding out her hand for a good shake.

I take it. "Margaret."

"Huh. You seem more like a Mags to me."

_**-:-:-:-**_

I spend _un autre_ night doing nothing but staring on up at the ceiling, and _après_ some time, my brain starts making pictures that ain't there. _Un chadron_, Walter's smile, Lila Fitzgerald's hand reaching on into that fish bowl and grabbing one of them slips. And always a tiny boat floating out into _la mer_. They all go dancing through the dark, and even when I go to close my eyes, they still there, shifting and turning right on the inside of my eyelids.

I must fall asleep at some point or another, 'cause one second the room's just starting to fill up with the light of the morning, and the next, Lila Fitzgerald comes stomping on into my room and shaking me so hard my teeth rattle.

"Get up," she hisses at me, loud as I ever heard a hiss. "You're having breakfast, and then the hovercraft will come to take you into the arena." Giving me one more good shake, she straightens herself right on up and swipes some of her hair outta her face. "You're already late, Margaret. If you aren't in the dining room for breakfast in the next five minutes, then you're just going to have to go into the arena on an empty stomach."

I ain't awake enough to watch her leave, but I hear the door click shut behind her.

First thing I think when I roll on outta bed and stumble around my room's that I ain't gotten enough sleep in the last couple of days. My eyes ache like nothing else – coming in and out of focus real quick – and I gotta squint when I'm picking something out from the closet.

I don't even bother trying to match anything together – 'cause I really ain't never had much practice doing that anywho – and when I walk on into the dining room where Lila and Edward are already eating, Lila gives me a sideways look and shakes her head a little.

Guess brown and black ain't a good combo here in the Capitol.

But I forget all about that when I find out they got flapjacks with chocolate pieces baked right into them. I have them with some clear brown syrup that's straight from District Seven, and I gotta rethink everything I ever knowed about the world when I go on tasting them. The chocolate goes on melting inside the flapjack while I'm eating, so when I put it on into my mouth it goes mixing up with the syrup, and… _Dieu m'aide_!

I go on eating almost three before Lila sets down her napkin atop of her plate and starts talking at Edward and me.

"Now," she says, pursing her lips a bit when she sees I gone and licked up the sticky stuff on my fingers. "A hovercraft will be situated in the city center waiting for all of the tributes to arrive. Once you're on the hovercraft, you'll be taken to the arena. We have to be there at nine thirty, so I expect to see you in the lobby by nine." Then, she stands on up and smoothes down her skirt before she strides out, leaving us two tributes sitting there all alone.

For a while, we just kinda sit chewing and digesting our food until Edward stands and follows Lila's path back to his room. "We got twenty minutes before we gotta be in the lobby," he says, his voice sounding kind of tight and high. "I'm gonna…" Clenching his fists, he blinks real hard, and I can't help noticing how bright his eyes seem.

My heart breaks a little, 'cause he's twelve and ain't got much chance of anything in the arena. 'Cause he's twelve, and he ain't gonna see another day.

"You okay?" I ask, even though any one-eyed _poisson_ could see he ain't.

"I'm _fine_," he goes and snaps at me, cracking on that there last word. "I'm gonna sleep a little more. I don't care what you do."

And then I'm sitting in the dining room all by myself. I kinda wanna go off and sleep a little myself, but I know that I ain't gonna catch any z's after filling up good on them _delicieux_ flapjacks, and it don't take me long to come up with _une mauvaise idée_.

The Capitol's building some big Training Center where us tributes gotta stay when we come on here for the Hunger Games, but it ain't finished yet, so we all staying in a real fancy hotel instead. It don't take me long to find the stairs and head on up to the next floor, where District Five's supposed to be staying.

I dunno what I was expecting, but when I get on up to the top of the staircase, there ain't anyone in the hallway I can see. The carpet's the same as the one on the District Four floor, and the walls are all done up with the same striped wall paper. And I'm just about ready to go on and leave for the next floor when I hear a god-awful noise coming from one of them doors.

It's kinda high and moaning but angry and low at the same time, and the only thing I can think I ever heard that sounded like it was the sound that man made in the square only a couple of days ago when the Peacekeeper shot him right through his head. Way on in the back of my mind, I remember something else too, interrupted by the sound of Mawmaw's voice – younger than I ever heard it since my _defan_ pop died.

And I know I gotta find out what's making that there noise.

Stepping real careful, I tiptoe right on down the District Five hallway until I come across a door that's open only a little – _ajar_. That moaning sounds real loud here, and I can make out some words.

"_Oh, God. I can't… I… Please forgive me. Why won't they leave me alone? She's— I… I'm sorry."_

Slow-like, I press my fingertips against door until it backs on away from me and I can see clear into the room.

It's a man – _peut-être un garçon_ – standing with a gun in his hand, pressed up against his chest, against his temple. He ain't facing me, and I can't get a good look at his face, but he's real familiar, especially with that gun tight in his fingers. He ain't the boy tribute – Gregory, I learned – ain't nearly as small and don't got the same shocking red hair.

It ain't until he pulls the trigger at his chest – suddenly making the most desperate wheezing sound my virgin ears ever witnessed – that I recognize who he is.

Pietro Siena. The victor of the Seventh Hunger Games. The one who got that gun, who shot that little girl.

_**-:-:-:-**_

_**Let the Games begin!**_

**Sometimes I forget that not everyone can slip in and out of French, so if there's anything that needs clarification, let me know.**

**As with last chapter, if you leave a signed review, I will happily send you a preview of part two (**_**Les Jeux**_**), which should be posted sometime next week.**


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